


godshall

by tkillamockingbird (Theboys)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Intersex Jotunn (Marvel), M/M, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-05 23:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15182192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/tkillamockingbird
Summary: Behind him, the sky rains fire.As in all things, Loki survives.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s freezing. 

That’s the first thing he notices, and his fingers tighten in belated shock. There’s a fission of light above, trickling overhead in a muted display.

He raises his hood.

His vision is obscured, and the trickle of seidr he can reach is so much less than what it was that he snaps his fingers closed in disgust.

_ Your Highness. _

The light flashes again, and this time, the foundation of the palace shudders and sends him lurching to his knees. His hands twist around his middle, helplessly, and he tilts his head to look up at the roiling of the clouds.

_ It is time. The King will lay waste if you are found here. _

Loki stands, hand hooked under the swell of his stomach.

“There’s nothing but waste in this,” he hisses, but he makes his way to the Bifrost all the same.

Behind him, the sky rains fire.

-

Loki’s mother has been buried five centuries when he is promised to the next King of Asgard.

It is a very formal affair, and his seidr is bound to his Aesir form so tightly he has not yet the wherewithal to unravel it.

The skin is his own, and yet not. The marks of his House are absent, violent, sharp swirls that disappeared into his hairline, and traveled swiftly down his spine.

He rubs anxiously at the back of his hand as they enter the Kingshall, and there is nothing but pale flesh to greet the warmth of fingertips.

It is Helbindi that guides him to the center of the room, amidst the gossiping titter of the assembled Asgardian nobility. 

Helbindi has watched over him since childhood, and he cannot help the tightening of his hand against one of Helbindi’s own fingers.

His brother makes a sound that sounds dangerous to the Aesir, he can tell from the uptick in their collective temperature.

_ You frighten them, brother,  _ he whispers, and he concentrates so that the verdant chime of energy goes unnoticed by the multitude.

It is difficult to speak to his brother in this way, as Helbindi has no seidrmaster mark, and he is ruthlessly practical in a manner that lends itself to intractability. 

He is versed on listening to Loki whisper, however, and the sound echoes from his chest again, and Loki’s small body blushes red with shared amusement.

_ They would do well to be frightened of you, little one. _

Loki stumbles once as his brother widens his stride, and Helbindi catches him by the shoulder, one heavy finger against the slant of his neck.

He flicks his gaze up, once, to the throne, and Helbindi’s finger becomes somehow more cumbersome.

The current King of Asgard is large for an Aesir, but Helbindi still stares down upon him, eyes merlot and heavy-set into his face.

Helbindi has seen wars that began and ended before Loki tore his way from his mother’s womb.

The King has only one eye, but they say he sees all that transpires in the realms, tethered together by the world-tree. Loki twirls the funny name around in his mouth, but he still cannot yet make the words shape right.

His hair is tight against his scalp, plaited by the deft hands of his half-brother’s dam. He is tender-headed, and Vioblindi’s mother has always treated him with all the disdain warranted an animal beneath her shoe.

The hair falls in long braids down either side of his back, and he’d been unable to staunch the yelp of pain that her work had produced. There are lines of jewels entwined between black, and he resists the urge to scratch.

“King of Asgard, father of wisdom and death, the battle and the gallows, I bring you what His Majesty Farbauti has promised you in time before time.” Helbindi’s voice carries and Loki shivers, skin abruptly clammy.

“First-born of Jotunheimr, bring forth your bride offering.” 

Loki tilts his head backwards and then marches forward, spine awkwardly stiff the way it was when the proper jotunns congregated in the Great Hall for his father’s favor. 

_ Allfather. _

The word is pressed clumsily into his mind, and Loki stills his palm as it attempts to cradle his temple in order to assuage the pain.

Loki gathers his skirts around his waist, the very thinnest shine of ankle peeking through gossamer.

“Allfather,” he says, and sinks to the floor in the way his tutor taught him, knees bruised from the repeated impact.

“You are young yet,” the Allfather says, and Loki looks up, eyes smarting from the pain he did not think to cushion with seidr. 

His eyes shift to the left, involuntarily. Beside the Allfather, there is a God.

-

Heimdall moves quickly. His hands are bloody, and Loki recoils, an involuntary movement he knows belongs more to his babe than himself.

“Quickly. Quickly, my Queen.” He gathers the greatsword in gnarled palms, and Loki trembles despite his best efforts. 

“Who else knows of this?” Loki asks, and Heimdall smiles down at him, moving one hand to tuck Loki’s dark curls behind one ear.

It’s a familiarity borne of necessity, and Loki flushes under the scrutiny. He is too young for this child, and younger still for what he’s about to embark upon.

“His Majesty,” Heimdall says, and both Loki and Heimdall glance upwards as lightning bears down across the sky, and flames kiss the wind.

“You will go. Now.” Heimdall twists, a quarter turn to the left, and the bridge descends on a wail, coalescing light and sound. 

_ Alone? _

He means for the question to be silent, and it is, in its way.

Heimdall’s eyes are burdened as he answers, just the same.

-

It is Thor that takes him to Ifing, pressed in front of wide bulk.

Thor is massive. He is not large in the way of a giant, but few are outside of home, but he is bigger than the body he inhabits.

When Loki is with Thor, he is surrounded by him. He’s suffocating in his own skin. He squirms backwards, one of Thor’s large arms bracketed around the cut of his waist, the other tight in the mane of Sleipnir.

“Is it not your father’s horse?” Loki had asked, head tilted backwards in order to reach Thor’s eyes.

Thor had only laughed and took Loki’s cheek in one palm, encompassing the entirety of his face.

“It is a King’s horse,” he replied, golden hair half-braided and twisted into a complicated bun at the base of his neck. 

“You are but yet a Prince,” Loki says, and Thor continues to smile down at him.

Sleipnir gallops at the speed of the wind. On a whim, Loki stretches out his seidr, carefully, disguising the green waves as gusts of wind and earth, so Thor remains unobservant, and he can feel the twist of land underneath hooves.

“He is very fast, Thor!” Thor’s arm tightens at the challenge Loki did not mean, and the horse glides somehow quicker, a violent uptick in speed that makes Loki squeal in delight.

“Could you make him fly on the wind, Thor?” Thor laughs and the sky darkens above them. Loki’s hand trembles and green flares outward, twisting, carried on the raw edges of Thor’s enthusiasm.

Sleipnir comes to a slow halt, and Loki hears the water before he sees it.

It is wide, a vast chasm that Loki cannot feel the end of, no matter how he reaches.

“Little master,” Thor says, his tongue clumsy on the jotunn vowels. Loki turns, startled, and he takes a step backwards.

“The skies are mine to command. The very air of storms,” Thor says, and Loki’s breath stutters in his chest. 

“I can feel you between the air. That is you, is it not?” 

Loki scrambles further away, arms raised protectively. He could not smite Thor, he is not strong enough yet, but he could stun him. He could cross this river home, if he must.

“Loki,” Thor says, and there is a new cadence to his voice, firm and unyielding. 

“Loki, hold,” he commands, and Loki mewls. The green is leaking from between tight fists, sinking into the ground, rotting the soil. He watches it spread, and it snakes over toward Thor’s feet, but the God does not look down.

“Loki! Hold!”

He loses his footing, and recalls that the river is blessed to never freeze.

-

Thor’s child does not like the Bifrost.

It also knows that it has been violently separated from home, and, more importantly, its father.

It loves Thor in a way that Loki can never hope to match, although he feels a great many things he has no name for.

His seidr is bound to the child, and he dares not try and dislodge its hold again.

For a moment, he is angry. Unreasonably and irrationally. He is pregnant by the most powerful god in the Nine, and he is alone, trapped on the outskirts of Vanaheim with no way to get home except to await aid.

The grass is thick and colder than he is used to.

He sinks to his bottom, skin raw with his landing.

The child will not settle, and Loki closes his eyes.

There is just enough of the seidr webbing he left here months before, when Thor grew solemn and warned him that it may be a possibility.

Before either of them knew it would not be solely him.

The babe kicks, violent to the last, and Loki doubles over, breath harsh.

“Please. I am really--I am trying. I am. There is no one here for us.” Loki pauses for air, eyes upturned.

“I am trying to get you back to your daddy,” Loki says, and he’s glad there’s no one around to see his pointless blush.

When he breathes in, he swears he can taste the sky.

-

Loki has not often been cold. At home, in his own skin, there was winter chill, but it was the winter of frost giants. It was inhumane to all but them and the gods, and now he feels a bit like he’s dying.

He cannot grow warm, and when his eyes open, he’s simultaneously hot as well.

His lips are dry and he can’t untangle his fingers from the furs they are caught in.

His seidr is slippery and evasive, and he does not have the concentration to hold onto it.

There are people flitting about him, and if he focuses, he can hear the hum of fire in a grate.

His legs are stiff and he moans, trapped.

Cool fingers prod at his cheeks, and his curls are sweat-damp against his forehead.

_ Thor _

It is a mistake, but his seidr latches onto the last pull of his will and Loki  _ feels  _ the word exit his mind.

The response is more violent that he hoped for, and he cannot help but recoil.

“Y-Your Majesty---” Loki hears, and then he shudders as thunder erupts outside.

Someone screams.

“Is that for me?” Loki asks, and by the gods, his cheeks are aflame.

Thor’s hair hangs heavy and loose around blue eyes. There are lines in his forehead.

“You are very handsome,” Loki says, seriously, and there is a heavy metallic thump, as something large hits the floor. The entire room trembles, and Loki stretches so that the cool air hits his neck.

“Did we swim, then?” Loki asks, and his brow furrows as Thor shudder-sighs. 

“You did, little one,” Thor replies, and Loki can feel himself smiling.

“I want to go back. Will Sleipnir ride for me? If you are there, to h-help guide him?” The words are slurring, and he’s very abruptly afraid. He remembers the Corridor and understands that he cannot get his hands free. 

Farbauti will be coming. He will be coming and Helbindi has gone to the edge of the world. Father is coming and there is no one to look after him. His seidr is a small thing.

The thunder increases in tempo, churning against the wind, and Loki squeezes his eyes shut against the flare of brightness the lightning brings.

When Thor lifts him, the world is very high.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

For a fortnight, Loki is unable to walk long distances.

He waits patiently, or patiently enough, he surmises, as they prod at his legs and raise his skirts higher than the point of decency.

It’s Frigga who comes, in the end, when Loki stumbles and lands on his bottom, legs willfully stubborn. His seidr catches fire to the curtains in the room and the ladies-in-waiting squeal unhelpfully as they attempt to extinguish the flames.

Frigga arrives with a flurry of activity, and her hands glide over his body without touching.

There is a minimal tingle in his spine and he makes an undignified sound as he levitates, for the first time, under a power outside of himself.

Her seidr is less heavy-handed than his own. He envies the light touch of her control, the golden webs spreading from an open palm.

His pillows straighten behind his back and he crosses his hands over his lap.

“Allmother,” Loki says meekly, and the Queen nudges his legs over carefully to take a seat beside him.

“So,” she begins, and Loki follows the thick coil of her braid down her back. It is darker than Thor’s but it looks flaxen from the sun. She is fair in a way he hopes his own children might be.

There is too much of Farbauti in him.

“Has my son treated you so poorly as to have you throw yourself into the sea?” Her mouth twitches with mirth, and Loki scrambles up to his knees, ignoring the phantom ache the motion produces.

Her eyes are the clouds her son summons at dusk, and Loki waves his own hands frantically.

“I would never! I was--frightened,” Loki admits, and he stiffens in habitual anticipation. Helbindi could not block every consequence, and Loki bravely raises his eyes.

“At home,” he begins, “seidr is the way of Helreginn.” Loki twists the sheets in one pale palm. They have taken off his golden rings, and he misses them, the familiar warmth they make around the digits.

“I knew of you, Your Majesty,” Loki stumbles ahead, “but I was unsure when I did not see you at the--at my presentation. To your s-son.” 

The stutter is an embarrassment. Byleistr had oft tried to beat it out of him, before Helbindi was able to intervene.

Frigga laughs, but the sound does not reach her eyes. She holds open her hand and waits for Loki to tentatively place his own within it.

“Thor has two younger brothers,” Frigga says, and this time, her smile is warm. “They are even littler than you, and sometimes, no one will do but their mama.”

Loki is dimly aware of the pulse of seidr into his palm, heated and generous. His legs twitch.

“My son is capable of a good deal,” she says, “but you need never fear him.”

“Now,” she commands, “balance yourself upon my shoulders.” She laughs when Loki hesitates, and guides his hands where she wants them.

When she is finished, the pain has disappeared but the weakness remains. She apologizes, one slender hand smoothing his hair into something manageable.

“The journey between realms is perilous, dear one,” she says, and she remains even as Thor bustles in, covered in dirt and what appears to be ash at first glance.

It is Thor who carries him from place to place, and he never quite learns how to stop.

-

The house is very small. It is a bit of a deception, for Loki interwove a spell into the wood that allows the dimensions within to exceed the dimensions outside, and as he steps through the doorway, the sight of the bed makes him moan with relief.

It is of size with Thor, big and spacious enough to carry the King, and Loki has some trouble climbing its great height.

His babe is sleeping, and Loki feels any disturbance will send it into an emotional tailspin once more.

He closes his arms around his waist as he situates himself in the center of blood-red sheets. He was not this helpless even when he was younger, locked away in his Father’s palace.

He can feel the churn of seidr under his blood, where it has coalesced in protection.

He reaches for the closest thing to him--a vase, of all things, what Thor thought they would have need of a vase for is beyond him--and flings it into an adjacent wall.

He immediately moves to mute the sound with seidr but it ricochets within his skin and he cannot help the wail of pain it elicits.

_ ThorThorThor _

The baby wakes.

-

“I do not understand.” 

Mjolnir strikes the floor, once, thrice, and Loki’s fingers spark in response to the shard of lightning that erupts.

“You cannot remain here. Especially not now,” Thor says, and Loki is already shaking his head.

“I want to go with you. What is the purpose of me being here if not to be with you?” He tilts his head to the side.

Thor crosses the room, boots soundless against the inlaid marble and jewel of the floor.

Above them, Odin rides Sleipnir, flanked by Geri and Freki. The wolves are of a height with a half-grown Jotunn, and Loki once begrudgingly allowed Thor to lift him so that he could scratch Geri between the eyes.

The mural is aloof and cold now, as Odin rests deep within the bowels of Bilskirnir.

“You will heed me, Loki,” Thor says, and there is none of the fond exasperation in his voice that Loki has come to know so well.

“I will only listen to those edicts which make  _ sense,  _ My King,” Loki spits, “and right now, you are acting as neither.”

The sky splits and Loki sends out a sharp jab of seidr that smacks his husband in the chest.

“Valhalla to Niflhel, you are a thorn in my side!” Thor advances and Loki yelps, moving backwards, even though the increased weight of his middle leaves him cumbersome, at best.

Mjolnir hums with the energy of her master’s anger, and Loki laughs as he melts the tile beneath Thor’s feet, winding it up and around Thor’s ankles like a snake.

The marble is cool as it climbs skin, and Thor curses. Loudly.

“Loki. This is not the time for games.” Thor’s voice is hard, and Loki’s hands drop to his sides.

“You are leaving me behind,” he says, and he can’t quite reach Thor’s eyes. “I would like to know why.”

Thor’s legs break the marble restraints like clay and he reaches down one big hand so that it envelopes Loki’s stomach. 

His chest churns unpleasantly. There’s something inherently grounding in the touch. The baby makes a formless push of joy towards its father. Loki allows his hand to rest atop Thor’s, startled at the differing size and color.

“I can take no more loss,” Thor grits out, and he uses his free hand to tip Loki’s chin back. The sea meets the earth.

“My father will rise before the oceans turn to blood,” Thor says, and he looks very old in this moment, although the kingship was only recently bestowed.

“My seidr will not allow me or your babe to be slain,” Loki says, but he pushes his belly further into Thor’s palm if only to hear his husband groan.

“That is  _ my  _ babe, in  _ my  _ consort. Do you not think I would storm the gates of Valhalla itself and take the Einherjar as my own to protect you both?” Thor’s skin crackles with energy, and while Loki loves the feel of lightning caressing skin, he’s suddenly afraid for the child.

“If it comes to war,” Loki says, “I--we will go. But you must promise,” he adds, childishly, foolishly, “you must come for us.”

Thor’s fingertips tighten briefly before relaxing on his progeny once more. 

“What of your seidr, little master? Will you have need of me?” Thor teases, complacent at having gotten his way.

Loki forces his own smile.

-

There are seven pools on Vanaheim that Loki found on his travels, two of which were discovered the last time Thor accompanied him so that they were able to set up this haven, undisturbed.

The Vanir have the power of sight--something Loki cannot master and Frigga always wielded.

The essence of the future is mostly contained within city limits, in the palace where Thor’s mother grew up.

There are wild sources of sight, and while Loki cannot see what is to come, his seidr allows him to witness what is  _ now,  _ and in some ways, that remains worse.

It is hard magic, to twist the will of time to suit his gaze, and only the anchor of the spells he placed before his seidr became all but lost to him grant this concession.

His good gowns are stained with grass, as are his palms, and he takes a deep breath before doubling over in an attempt to see past his child.

His stomach makes it more tedious and uncomfortable than before, and the water before him ripples once, before settling.

The pool is a third of the size of the Allfather’s direwolves, and thinner than Loki would like. He presses his palms into the soil and speaks under his breath, just enough seidr to wake the babe from its slumber.

A restless thing, stronger than Loki by ten, it kicks in irritation.

“Hush, now,” Loki chastises, and then the water fades to black. It is the darkness of night, of torment, and Loki’s first instinct is to recoil.

The flames rise into the sky. There is a scream that reverberates through his skull, and he grits his teeth as the baby kicks once more.

He covers his mouth as his brother comes into view, more scarred than when Loki had seen him last. His palms are splayed wide, and he watches the ice connect to flame. The orange groans under the effort to push forward, hindered by the chill.

There have not been Jotunns in Asgard since before Loki or his brothers could consider time.

He is too far and too weak to press into his brother’s mind, and he knows he would fail.

His child has settled; it seems to know that Loki is looking for its father.

For a long moment, there is nothing but the fires of Muspelheim, close and yet not near Bilskirnir, and then lightning takes the skies. It does not dissipate, as Thor often does for Loki’s benefit, but it remains unnaturally high, tangled amongst the clouds.

There is a roar.

The pool dissolves back into water, and Loki curls onto his side as the babe batters his ribcage.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Life is suffering. There is nothing to be done about what you are. It would be against your very nature to survive.” Byleistr presses two fingers to Loki’s chest and shoves, and Loki tumbles down and backwards, seidr cushioning the impact. 

“Seems a bit late for that, brother,” Loki says, the raw hum of energy suffusing his bones. “You are as bright as you are loquacious.”

Loki twists his body to the left, narrowly avoiding the killing crush of his brother’s foot. 

“You are a disease. You are Helbindi’s favorite pet,” Byleistr spits, his eyes lightening in color with rage. 

Loki clambers to his feet, indigo with hatred. He knows what he is. He knows what he’s meant for. 

“You will die alone, Byl. Even if I am to die soon, it shall not be by your hand.” Loki is not fast enough. He is small and his brother shatters his left leg. 

The seidr it takes to heal it is immeasurable. 

He cannot run without an ache. 

-

It is three weeks until they are to be wed when Loki wakes to the resonance of Mjolnir, which signals that Thor is nearby. 

He pulls his blankets up to his chest, heavy, stifling things made of the fur of lambs. 

They are blood red, darker even than Helbindi’s eyes at the height of Moon season. 

“Who is there?” 

His seidr snaps in the darkness, a flicker of pale flame hovered next to his face. 

“Did I frighten you, little master?” Thor teases, and Loki listens for the hush of his cape as it drags across the floor. 

“You certainly did not leave me at ease,” Loki says, and his face flushes hotly. He does not intend to be sent away. He thinks of Helbindi’s face as he said goodbye, taken in the swirl of rainbow. 

“H-Have you need of anything?” Loki tries again, and Thor’s face comes into view. He looks otherworldly in the glow of green, and Loki quickly lowers his eyes. 

“Come here,” Thor says softly, and Loki’s cheeks are aflame. 

His chest is bare underneath the overly warm comforter, and he is abruptly very cold.

He has the very beginnings of breasts, a small handful that chafe against the coarse fabric of his Jotunn tunics.

He’s being commissioned a new gown for the ceremony, but he doesn’t know how to tell his ladies-in-waiting that he’d like more options for clothes. He hasn’t many to choose from, and, even in this, he doesn’t want to shame his House.

“I am--bare, Thor,” he whispers instead, and the seidr sputters alongside his embarrassment. 

Thor’s eyes flick downwards, too quickly to be believed, and he puts one hand against Loki’s warm cheek. 

“Then stay wrapped up, sweetheart,” Thor says, and his voice is lower than Loki’s ever heard it before. He’s still holding the sheets about him in a poor attempt at modesty when Thor lifts him, coverlet and all.

The seidr follows him, a torch in the night, and Loki’s ear is hot when he presses it to the exposed skin of Thor’s sternum.

“You are a little thing,” Thor murmurs in his hair, and Loki watches the black strands flutter around his face.

“Did you come to tease me?” Loki asks, fingers curled into the edge of Thor’s cape. His heart beats unevenly.

“I came with no ill intent, dear one,” Thor says, and his arms tighten around Loki’s waist. “I brought you a gift, may it be known.”

Loki rears backwards, and Thor raises his forearm so that Loki can rest his head against it as he looks at Thor’s countenance.

“You jest. Is the daylight too sensitive to bear consideration?” Loki says, and Thor does not reply for a moment. His free hand comes up, thumb kissing the edge of Loki’s eyelid, stuttering against long lashes.

It’s over as soon as it began, and Thor takes a great breath. 

“I have brought you a cub,” Thor says, and Loki’s eyes widen. “A wolfling? Here? Thor!  Thor, is it to be big? As big as Geri?”

Loki’s fists are clenched in Thor’s lapel and his blanket slides down, listless.

His collarbone comes into view first and Thor’s fingers graze it carefully before he tugs the fabric back around Loki’s throat.

His face is hot, but he bounces on Thor’s lap just the same.

“He is here, he is here, hold, Loki,” Thor laughs, and he leans off of the edge of this great bed and makes a susurration in his throat. 

Loki holds his breath when he hears it, the clicking of soft paws and nails against an unforgiving floor. There is a whine, more curious than anything, and they tilt gently to the side as Thor holds Loki immobile and scoops the cub with one thick forearm.

The cub is meant for a godling, already almost as big as Loki but much smaller than Thor. Most things are smaller than Thor, Loki thinks, and his body warms with the thought.

It is white all over, not unlike the half-giantess wolf hybrids that live just outside Gastropnir.

It is less feral, possessing a fierce intelligence. One of his eyes is blue, a much colder blue than Thor’s--that of the frozen waste of the Outlands, and the other is golden, warm as honey and butter-rich. His fur is immaculate, whiter than any snow before.

He licks Loki’s cheek, right and then left, and Thor’s hand comes up to cradle his face and the nape of his neck, simultaneously.

“You weep. Why are you crying, sweetheart?” Thor’s thumbs are thickly callused and Loki can feel how very careful Thor must be not to crush him. 

The thought causes more tears, and soon he is shaking, his little wolfling and Thor clumsily consoling him.

His seidr winks out in his distress and the cub howls at the abrupt darkness. Loki nudges the light back into being, a bit brighter for the scare he caused.

Thor uses his grip on Loki’s hair to tug his neck backwards, and Loki sees that Thor himself looks on the verge of tears.

“I had thought to bring you a companion. Your brother is not oft with you, and I cannot see you as regularly as I might enjoy.” Thor pauses, and Loki cannot even blink, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes.

“You are very young,” Thor says, and his face flushes. Loki has never seen that color upon his skin. “You are so young and lovely, and I had thought you would like--something, but you mustn’t cry so, little one.”

“I would like it--,” Loki says, and he does not do away with the quiver in his voice, “I would have you kiss me,” he asks, and Thor’s hand trembles from its position on his cheek.

“Come here,” he repeats, and Loki raises his torso as high as he can. Thor plunders him, seeking entry upon the first press of skin to skin. Loki moans, a thready sound, and Thor crushes him so tightly to his chest that he feels the creak of his bones.

It is filthy, and Loki opens his small mouth to Thor’s ministrations, body lax and cumbersome. He releases his hold on the blankets and the tip of his cold nipples press against the comparatively lightweight Asgardian linen.

They’re hard enough for Thor to register the feeling, even as he bites at the bottom swell of Loki’s lips, worrying the flesh until Loki is sure they are swollen.

“By the Nine,” Thor says, forcefully pulling away at the contact.

Loki is slow in covering, nervous beyond comprehension, but Thor’s eyes are dark, pupil expanded to black nothingness.

“Is that what you meant to keep from me?” Thor asks, and Loki shivers at the gravel in his voice. “You knew not to let me catch sight of your tender little breasts,” Thor continues, and Loki is  _ wet,  _ slick covering the folds of his cunt and surely seeping past the blanket and onto Thor’s thighs.

His own legs quiver, and there is a formless  _ something  _ hovering in his lower abdomen. “I should like to bite you there, worry your nipples until you cry. You cry beautifully, sweetheart,” Thor says, and his wolfling sneezes, a soft sound that jars the both of them.

Loki mewls as his legs involuntarily clench together, and Thor looks down, at the exact place where Loki’s cunt meets the apex of his thighs.

Covered as he is, he feels naked regardless, and the cub nuzzles his snout into Loki’s hair, which is disheveled from Thor’s manhandling.

“If I do not leave now,” Thor says, “I cannot make you my bride a virgin.”

Loki raises the flare of seidr high enough to catch the corded veins in Thor’s arms as he lifts Loki from his lap and rearranges the sheets around him.

The cub snuffs at Thor’s hand and then turns fully to face Loki.

Thor turns, and he’s facing Loki’s westward balcony when Mjolnir slaps his palm loud enough for the sound to echo throughout the chamber.

The wolfling growls.

“Tell me his name tomorrow,” Thor says, and he turns around in order to catch Loki’s eye, gaze mentally cataloguing every inch of Loki’s skin.

“If anyone sees you like this,” he pauses, “accidental or otherwise, I  _ will  _ know, little one.”

Thor has sailed into the night before Loki can respond, and the cub falls against his side with a relieved huff, all of the fight leached from its body.

Loki names the cub Thialfi.

-

It is Heimdall himself that comes to see Loki, two weeks after his narrow escape.

Heimdall smells like ash and earth, and there are runes burned into his palms. He has been navigating the Bifrost under heavy fire.

Loki runs to him, as soon as the Bifrost snaps into existence. It is gone as quickly as it was conjured, and Loki is out of breath after the first step. His hand flies to the small of his back and his feet make faint imprints in the dirt.

Thor has provided him with a supernatural store of food, meant to constantly replenish itself. He consulted with the Light-Elves for the rune seidr, and it shows.

There is nothing he left untouched in the creation of this haven.

“Are you well?” Loki’s vision dances and it is Heimdall who steadies him, two hands on his elbows.

“You must not exert yourself, Your Highness,” Heimdall admonishes, and Loki glares up at him in astonishment.

“I---Heimdall, my home is under attack, you are in  _ pain  _ and I do not know where my husband is---I am of no consequence!”

Loki’s hair spills out of its haphazard braid, the sloppiest effort he has ever made. The wisps frame wild eyes, and for a moment, Heimdall simply looks down on him.

“You are carrying the future of our people,” Heimdall says, and he hisses slightly as he registers the ache from the runes that have been branded into his palms.

“The King and your people have led the fire giants from Asgard.” Loki sags in relief. They will not kill needlessly. His people are safe.

The babe squirms in ever present discomfort.

“They are coming for you. The King has sent me here. Even now, they pursue, and it is only a matter of time before the Vanir come to investigate.”

Heimdall stretches out his hand.

-

Thialfi is underfoot during Loki’s giving ceremony. 

His gown is made of elven-dew, and it shimmers in waves as he walks. There are stars interwoven between strands of moisture, and Loki blinks wet eyes stupidly as he considers how expensive it was for Thor to commission something of this magnitude.

Thor has never seen him in it, and he won’t--not until Helbindi passes on the runes that bind Loki to his House into Thor’s care.

In his Aesir form, he will retain the same rune as Thor, in a place of Thor’s choosing. He will belong to himself and another, simultaneously.

Thialfi yips at his feet, a mere bug to Helbindi, but well past Loki’s knees. 

He eats more than Loki could in a year, and Thor finds great joy in feasting beside the great beast himself.

Loki lifts his gown carefully and sinks to his knees. His arms are not long or big enough to wrap around Thialfi entirely, but he cradles the warmth as much as he is able.

“You must behave, Thia. They laugh at you in the Serving Hall, but they will not be so amused if you take a piss on the Allmother’s gown.” 

Loki glances up at Helbindi, face warm and smiling, but his brother does not return the expression.

The knot in his chest grows. 

He looks more like Farbauti than Loki ever knew.

“Wish me good fortune?” Loki asks, and he hates how small he sounds. Not Helbindi.

Hel leans down, the tip of his index nudging Loki’s chin up.

“Wee seidrmaster,” he says, moving his finger away from Loki in order to gently rub against Thialfi’s spine, “to love is to know no peace.”

 

 


End file.
